Chapter 123: Bearing the Mission

In a light gray shirt and black suit, the man sat on the sofa with a relaxed and calm demeanor, naturally crossing his legs. His every move exuded a composed sternness, a quiet authority that drew glances yet made them quickly avert, fearing any prolonged eye contact might lead to an intimidating encounter with his deep, dark eyes.

With short hair, a broad forehead, and sharp, starry eyes, his already rugged facial features were accentuated by a stoic, emotionless expression. The resulting aura was one of authority, able to drop the room's temperature with just a glance.

At this moment, the waiting area was spacious, with plenty of available seating. Yet, those waiting there had subtly distanced themselves, gathering in small groups in the corners, creating an unoccupied zone around him. Even flies seemed to avoid the area.

Nevertheless, curious glances continued to sneak in from the corners of eyes, unable to resist stealing looks, secretly speculating. This shared curiosity became a silent agreement among the guests, their exchanged glances filling in the blanks with imagined gossip.

Until someone appeared—

"Hey!"

A slightly tense voice called out, stopping Anson in his tracks.

The voice's owner glanced nervously at the dark figure, clearly anxious, swallowing hard as if afraid the reminder might be misunderstood, as though the figure might pull out a silenced pistol any second. The person turned back to Anson, cautiously adding another reminder.

"There are seats over here too."

It was a woman, appearing to be in her late twenties. Though she seemed a bit reserved, she offered Anson a smile and discreetly indicated the seat next to her, subtly warning him.

Anson understood, returning her smile and nodding toward the dark figure. "He's my bodyguard, naturally a bit stern."

The crowd: Oh.

A collective realization swept through them, and the tension eased slightly. The temperature in the room seemed to rise as everyone relaxed a little.

Anson smiled in gratitude, then sat down next to the dark figure, placing the cheeseburger on the table in front of him.

The dark figure had already noticed the commotion around him, but his eyes never left the newspaper in his hands. In a cold, stiff tone, he muttered, "Who pairs whiskey with a burger?"

Beside the cheeseburger was indeed a glass of whiskey, neat.

That flat, emotionless voice drew eyes back toward them again.

Anson, however, remained utterly nonchalant. "Drinking before six in the evening—looks like someone's been under a lot of stress lately. You haven't started drinking too much, have you?"

A trace of helplessness flashed in the dark figure's narrow eyes as he looked at Anson, who was clearly joking, but he didn't argue. Instead, he simply reminded him, "Don't tell Mom."

Saying this, the dark figure handed Anson a bag of plain potato chips that had been sitting beside the whiskey.

Though Anson was already holding a pile of food, he gestured with his eyes, prompting the dark figure to set down the *Wall Street Journal* and help open the bag of chips. He placed them beside Anson.

Anson didn't rush. He took out a few chips, placed them on a napkin, and deftly crushed them. Then he sprinkled the chip crumbs over his hot dog, finally biting into it with a satisfied smile.

"Ah, afternoon snacks really do taste best with hot dogs and chips."

This was the original owner's favorite, a combination Anson couldn't initially imagine enjoying. But after trying it once, he found himself surprisingly fond of the odd pairing.

The dark figure's lips curled slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Only you would like such weird combinations. Just make sure you don't slip up in front of Mom. If she finds out I let you order all this, including the beef patty, she'll definitely start nagging again."

Lucas Wood, Anson's older brother, was six years his senior. Due to the significant age gap, Lucas had been eagerly awaiting a younger sibling to accompany him, and when Anson was finally born, Lucas was overjoyed.

In the original memories, there was a photo of Lucas, his slender body holding baby Anson swaddled in a blanket, smiling brightly at the camera. He had made a solemn promise: "I will take good care of my brother."

And of course, Lucas kept his word.

Anson glanced at Lucas, his expression unreadable. "You do realize that my workout results for this week are completely ruined because of this combo, right?"

Lucas remained calm. "I didn't even know you worked out."

Anson: ...

"Breathing. Don't you know that breathing is the best calorie-burning exercise?"

Lucas blinked, hesitating as if he wanted to say something but ultimately just nodded silently with a resigned "Okay" expression on his face.

Anson's lips curled up slightly, clearly pleased with the response. As for Lucas's expression, he chose to ignore it. "The food truck outside—whose idea was that?"

Even though the food truck didn't have a signature, Anson immediately knew it was Lucas's doing.

After all, from selecting the menu to coordinating with the resort and getting the necessary permits from the town hall, to contacting "GQ" for behind-the-scenes photos and creating the cardboard cutout, this elaborate and slightly mischievous gesture could only be Lucas's work.

Lucas didn't answer directly. "Did you like it?"

Anson chuckled. "Very trendy."

A hint of helplessness appeared in Lucas's eyes. "I'm only twenty-four, not thirty-four."

Ever since Lucas turned twenty, Anson had been teasing him about being an old man, a joke that even spread through the family, leading some relatives to start calling him by the nickname Anson had coined—

"Old Lucas."

Lucas found it a bit of a headache, but his expression remained unchanged. Watching Anson chew away happily, Lucas joined in the self-deprecation. "Yeah, I asked some of the kids in the company born after 1990 for some inspiration."

Kids born after 1990?

That meant children who weren't even ten years old.

Though Lucas joked, his expression remained stoic, turning even the funniest joke into something that seemed like a scientific study, likely terrifying any ten-year-old.

A quick glance around confirmed it: shivering with fear, unable to laugh.

Anson grinned. "Are you sure? I think the kids probably wet their pants before they even got to you."

Lucas noticed Anson's sideways glances. With a cold look, he said in a deep voice, "I was just joking. Couldn't you tell?"

The air was thick with silence, as if a crow was slowly flying overhead.

"I was joking," Lucas repeated.

Heh.

Dry chuckles.

Heh heh.

Awkward.

The innocent bystanders around them let out dry, nervous laughs, their eyes betraying their fear. As soon as Lucas turned away, a few of them quietly started slipping out.

Lucas, unfazed, turned his attention back to Anson, his face serene.

Thud!

A guest, in their haste and panic, nearly stumbled, catching themselves just in time to avoid a fall. Whether out of fear or embarrassment, they bolted out of the room without looking back.

Pfft.

Anson, not bothering to hold back, burst into laughter. "That joke was pretty good."